Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Dead Deliveryman
by Galaxy1001D
Summary: Sherlock's dinner engagement with his brother is interrupted when Watson becomes a murder suspect.
1. An Unexpected Delivery

**Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Dead Deliveryman**

_By Galaxy1001D_

_Based off the story 'Murder is Corny' by Rex Stout_

_Additional material by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Rex Stout_

_Chapter One: An Unexpected Delivery_

When contrasting my personal habits with that of my ingenious friend the casual observer often mistakes me for a bit of a ladies' man, and I suppose I am, compared to the solitary habits of that self-styled hermit, Mister Sherlock Holmes. But no man in my experience is as great a mysinogist as Sherlock's brother, his senior by some seven years, Mister Mycroft Holmes. I often remark, somewhat unfairly, of my friend's aversion to women, but this is a misleading assessment, since Holmes' disinclination to form new friendships also extended to his own gender.

My friend's misanthropy also seemed to extend to his own family. For the first six years of my long and intimate acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes I had never heard him refer to his relations, and hardly ever to his own early life. This reticence upon his part had increased the somewhat inhuman effect which he produced upon me, until sometimes I found myself regarding him as an isolated phenomenon, a brain without a heart, as deficient in human sympathy as he was preeminent in intelligence. I had come to believe that he was an orphan with no relatives living; so you can imagine my surprise when I actually got to meet his brother.

To describe Mycroft Holmes would take more talented writers than me. Suffice to say that to my ignorant eyes he appeared to be an exaggeration of my friend and his eccentricities to a level bordering the unbelievable. Indeed, even from my friend's lips Brother Mycroft has been described as 'one of the queerest men'. When you understand Sherlock Holmes' quirks and foibles as intimately as I do you can only begin to imagine what _Mycroft_ Holmes must be like.

For example, when not on a case, Holmes would often enter a period of intense lethargy, spending his days lying upon the sofa in the sitting-room, hardly uttering a word or moving a muscle from morning to night. According to my friend his brother's physical inactivity surpassed this, and the only exercise Mycroft ever takes is the short walk to his office in Whitehall that is just around the corner from his lodgings in Pall Mall.

Sherlock Holmes seems to shun any company but my own but he does correspond with other criminal investigators at home and abroad. He is not completely friendless, he merely appears so. Mycroft, on the other hand is so misanthropic that he has joined a club so antisocial that no member is permitted to take the least notice of any other one and conversation is confined to a special room that has been set aside to provide strangers social intercourse. Naturally this singular club is opposite Mycroft Holmes' rooms. He would never join a club that was more than a block from his residence after all, for then he would actually have to _go somewhere_.

But to my friend's credit, he not only claimed that his flaws were magnified in his brother but also his strengths as well. My friend asserted that his brother possessed superior powers of observation and deduction. Brother Mycroft's memory was as near eidetic as mortal man can achieve. His job, as far as I can infer is a kind of human repository of knowledge that the ministers of government can access merely by consulting him. By memorizing, analyzing, and cross referencing any official document that falls on a government desk Mycroft can predict national and international trends as accurately as Sherlock can deduce a man's occupation. There have been indications that Mycroft's word in the right ear can direct government agencies and subcommittees. Sherlock Holmes once hinted to me that at times his brother _is_ the government, but whether this is reality or exaggeration is not for a humble Boswell to explore.

My tale takes place in the year of 1887, before I met my beloved Mary, when I was still a free man who kept an eye out for a prospective bride. I had taken up ballroom dancing much to Holmes' displeasure and at times it seemed that he went to great lengths to distract me by bringing me along on his cases. Once, when he was not on a case, he contrived to invite me to dinner at his brother's house. Such a singular experience was not to be missed, and I admit I was curious.

"Dinner at your brother's?" I asked while we ignored the fog outside our window at our Baker Street address. "What's the occasion old boy?"

"Ah, my brother fancies himself a gourmand," my friend shrugged apologetically from the sofa. "Among the numerous _outré_ sciences that can be found in his head is the art of aristology. He feels that dining is an art to experience, from the preparation to the presentation to the actual consumption of the meal, and not merely a chore that is necessary for the nourishment of the body. To Mycroft, the art of cooking and eating is necessary food for the soul."

"Whereas you claim that eating is a waste of energy," I chuckled. "Well that explains the difference in appearance between you two. I wouldn't be surprised if you looked like twins if your dining habits coincided but since you forget to eat and your brother never misses a meal it's hard to tell that you're even related."

"Ooh!" Holmes winced. "A touch, Watson! A distinct touch! A wound from which the house of Holmes shall never recover I fear. Yes it is true that I have been known to miss out on the fine points of dining at times. I suppose that some of the best meals prepared have been wasted on me. Mycroft is disgusted by the way I just toss any old thing down my throat without any thought to the taste or experience. Like you, he disapproves of my use of tobacco and cocaine and only partakes of snuff himself. He seems to think that I am the only Holmes with a self-destructive habit."

"You think he might eat too much?" I teased.

"Me?" Holmes shook his head in false innocence. "I am but a dabbler in the medical sciences, a lowly consulting detective. It would take a professional physician to make such a diagnosis. Who am I to presume to make judgments on my brother's health when I room with a medical man who has seen action overseas? Surely you can judge Mycroft better than I can in that regard."

"Is there any Holmes who doesn't have a self-destructive habit?" I asked with gentle sarcasm.

"The question is: is there any man alive who doesn't?" Holmes countered. "But you're right of course. Art in the blood is liable to take the strangest forms. My grandmother, you know, was the sister of Vernet, the French artist. Many an artist has ruined himself with his self-destructive habits. Therefore I have taken the precaution of rooming with a medical doctor who frowns on the overuse of pills. When there's as much art in the blood as there is in mine you have to nip these things in the bud you know."

"What precautions has Brother Mycroft taken?" I asked dryly.

"He has hired a professional chef who uses only the freshest ingredients," my friend informed me. "In addition to being a master chef himself, Brother Mycroft has also done a thorough study of the budding science of nutrition. Though he may eat to excess, he will not allow any one toxin to accumulate in his system from repetitive dining. The cuisine changes from day to day, thus ensuring that only thing that is wrong with his body is that there is far too much of it."

"What is on the menu this evening?"

"Tonight's treat, my friend is corn," Holmes purred. "By an arrangement with a farmer named Duncan McLeod, every Tuesday from July 20 to October 5, twelve ears of just-picked corn are delivered, twenty tonight to accommodate you and me. They shall be roasted in the husk, and we'll do our own shucking as we eat - four ears for me, four for you, eight for Brother Mycroft, and four in the kitchen for the cook. The corn has to arrive no earlier than five-thirty and no later than six-thirty. It is just after five-thirty now. Shall we go to Pall Mall to see a master at work?"

"Yes, let's." And once again Holmes had kept me away from my quest to form an acquaintance with a member of the fair sex. I forgave him. A true gentleman doesn't devote his all his time to dallying with women anyway.

When we arrived at Mycroft's address the master of the house was in as foul a temper as decorum would allow. What had caused tragedy to befall the house of Holmes, as my friend flippantly put it? The answer was simple, Mycroft's chef Fritz replied in agitation. The summer corn had not arrived. Mycroft Holmes, as you may have inferred, was a much larger and stouter man than Sherlock. His body was absolutely corpulent, but his face, though massive, had preserved something of the sharpness of expression which was so remarkable in that of his brother. His eyes, which were of a peculiarly light, watery gray, usually held that far-away, introspective look which I had only observed in Sherlock's when he was exerting his full powers. Now they resembled those of my friend when he was threatening some miscreant.

A knock on the door seemed to herald a reprieve. "That must be the corn now!" I smiled optimistically as I went down the hall. "I'll get the door."

When I opened it, I was taken aback. The large carton the man carried had the words MYCROFT HOLMES printed upon it, but the man himself was all wrong. Don't mistake me. I didn't find the little ferret like man with the beady clever eyes foreign in any way. No, the reason I found his presence so disorienting was because he was so familiar.

"Inspector Lestrade?" I frowned in confusion. "What in the devil? Are you moonlighting now, inspector?"

"Hardly," he snorted. "Although I'm surprised to see you, Doctor Watson. I guess the similarity in names is no coincidence. Who _is_ Mycroft Holmes, by the way, Sherlock's lost cousin?"

"No, his brother actually," I said as I let him inside. "I'm surprised inspector. I would have thought Gregson would have told you all about the Melas case. Didn't he tell you about Mister Melas, the Greek interpreter?"

"Oh yes, Gregson told me about that," the weasel like inspector admitted. "I thought he was making it up. Holmes has a brother? I would have thought his parents would have learned their lesson the first time."

"Mycroft is the _older_ brother actually," I informed him.

"Ah! That explains it," Lestrade nodded. "They would never have had another if Sherlock had been the first. Where are the Holmes brothers by the way?"

"This way inspector," I said as I led him down the hall to the study.

"Inspector Lestrade! Bless my soul," my friend purred as Lestrade set the box down on a counter and used a knife to cut the cord.

The Scotland Yard inspector then opened the flaps, took out an ear of corn, held it up, and said, "If you were going to have this for dinner, I guess it's too late."

Mycroft moved to his elbow, turned the flap to see the inscription, his name, grunted, circled around the desk to his chair, and sat. "You have your effect," he said. "I am impressed. Where did you get it?"

"If you don't know, maybe your brother and Doctor Watson do." Lestrade shot a glance at me, went to a red leather chair facing the end of Mycroft's desk, and sat. "I've got some questions for you and for them, but of course you want grounds. At a quarter past five, two hours ago, the dead body of a man was found in the alley back of the hoity-toity restaurant known as the Royale. He had been hit in the back of the head with a piece of iron pipe which was there on the ground by the body. The wagon he had come in was alongside the receiving platform of the restaurant, and in the wagon were nine cartons containing ears of corn." Lestrade pointed. "That's one of them, your name on it, Mister Mycroft Holmes. You get one like it every Tuesday. Correct?"

Mycroft nodded. "I do. In season. Has the body been identified?"

"Yes. Identification and other items in his pockets, including cash, thirty-some shillings. Kenneth Faber, twenty-eight years old. Also men at the restaurant identified him. He had been delivering the corn there the past five weeks, and then he had been coming on here with yours. Am I correct Mister Holmes?"

"I wouldn't know," Mycroft replied. "A servant answers the door." He glanced at the ear of corn Lestrade had dropped on his desk, before he picking it up and feeling it by gripping it in the middle, and soon he was shucking it. From where I stood, the rows of kernels looked too big, too yellow, and too crowded. Mycroft frowned at it, muttered, "I thought so," put it down, stood up, reached for the carton, said, "You will help, Sherlock," took an ear, and started shucking it. My flatmate glanced at me and shrugged before taking an ear and joining him.

Once Lestrade realized he was being ignored, he turned his attention on me. "Doctor Watson, there are some particulars you can help me with. Were you at the Royale at any time on this fine day?"

"No of course not," I laughed. "I'd spoil my dinner, I..." My voice trailed off when I saw the penetrating look he was giving me. "Something wrong inspector? I don't have anything on my jacket do I?"

"May I ask where you were at five-fifteen this afternoon?"

"I was at home," I stammered, "with Holmes. He's right over there, you can ask him yourself."

"My dear Inspector, do I understand that our very own Doctor Watson is a suspect in this foul crime?" my companion asked in an amused tone.

"Yes, I'm afraid he is," Lestrade nodded.

"Goodness me!" Sherlock Holmes laughed. "The game, if you'll allow me to paraphrase William Shakespeare my dear Watson, is afoot."

* * *

_Next: Murder Is Corny_


	2. Murder is Corny

**Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Dead Deliveryman**

_By Galaxy1001D_

_Based off the story 'Murder is Corny' by Rex Stout_

_Additional material by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Rex Stout_

_Chapter Two: Murder is Corny_

"What?" I ejaculated. "But I don't even know this man Faber!" Holmes continued to laugh, but I wasn't amused. "This isn't funny!" I protested. "I know I have an alibi for the time of the murder, but this isn't funny! What about my reputation?"

"Lock up your doors, men of London," Holmes sniggered. "Doctor Watson is on the loose! He has a medical license, and he knows how to use it!"

"Will you quit it Holmes?" Lestrade snapped. "I swear that you'd joke at your own necktie party!" He returned his attention to me. "You! How well do you know Max Maslow?"

"This is preposterous!" I shook my head. "Why should I know anything about this man, Maslow? Would you care to connect it for me Inspector?"

"I'm investigating a murder, Doctor."

"So I gathered. And apparently I'm a suspect. Connect it, if you please."

"One item in Kenneth Faber's pockets was a little notebook," Lestrade said condescendingly. "One page had the names of four men written in pencil. Three of the names had checkmarks in front of them. The last one, no checkmark, was John Watson. The first one was Max Maslow. Will that do?"

"I'd rather see the notebook," I snorted.

"It's at the Yard." He assured me. "Look, Doctor, if your friend Sherlock Holmes can vouch for you, you have nothing to hide. Just answer my questions and we'll have this all straightened out in no time."

I nodded. "Very well. I don't know any Max Maslow and have never heard the name before. The other two names with checkmarks?"

"Peter Jay. J-A-Y."

"Don't know him and never heard of him."

"Carl Heydt." He spelled it.

"That's better. Couturier?"

"He makes clothes for women."

"Yes, I'm familiar with him," I nodded. "We sometimes play cards at my club."

"How well do you know him?"

"Not well at all. He served in Afghanistan during the war. We've shared some stories and some drinks. When I'm fortunate enough to have a lady friend I send some business his way."

"Do you know why his name would be in Faber's notebook with a checkmark?"

"I don't know and I couldn't guess."

"Do you want me to connect Susan McLeod before I ask you about her?"

"McLeod?" Sherlock Holmes interjected. "Dear me, it's a small world."

"She's Duncan McLeod's daughter isn't she?" I smiled coyly.

Lestrade was eying me. "You're never slow, are you, Doctor?"

I gave him a grin. "Slow as cold honey. But I try to keep up."

"Don't strain yourself," Lestrade warned me. "Doctor, just how long have you been intimate with the farmer's daughter?"

"Intimate!" I bristled under the insinuation. "There are several definitions for 'intimate,' Inspector. Which one?"

"You know very well which one."

"Dash it all, of all the cheek!" I sputtered. "If you mean the very worst, or the very best, depending on how you look at it, I'm afraid I have nothing to confess. She's a charming girl and all but I haven't seen much of her for almost a year. The last time I saw her was at a party somewhere a couple of weeks ago. I don't know who her escort was, but it wasn't me. As for my being intimate with her, meaning what you mean, I assure you that my intentions have been strictly honorable. What are you implying Inspector?"

"A great deal. You got her a job with that Carl Heydt. You found her a place to live, a flat that happens to be only six blocks from here."

I cocked my head at him. "Where did you get that? From Carl Heydt?"

"No. From her."

"Blast!" Mycroft exclaimed as he set the last ear of corn on his desk. When he and Sherlock finished they had three piles, as assorted by Mycroft. Two ears were too young, six were too old, and eight were just right. He returned to his chair, looked at Lestrade, and declared, "This is preposterous!"

"Are you also a character witness for Doctor Watson?" Lestrade asked him.

"What?" Brother Mycroft waved him off. "No, of course not, but I really think you're wasting your time with the good doctor. Shall I expound it?"

"Yeah. Go ahead."

"Since you have questioned men at the restaurant, you know that the corn comes from a man named Duncan McLeod, who grows it on a farm some sixty miles north of here. He has been supplying it for four years, and he knows precisely what I require. It must be nearly mature, but not quite, and it must be picked not more than three hours before it reaches me. Do you eat sweet corn?"

"On occasion," Lestrade shrugged. "What of it?"

"No," Mycroft shook his head. "Who cooks it?"

"My wife. Who else?"

"Does she cook it in water?"

"Sure. Is yours cooked in champagne?"

"No. Millions of women, and some men, commit that outrage every summer day. They are turning a superb treat into mere provender. Shucked and boiled in water, sweet corn is edible and nutritious; roasted in the husk in the hottest possible oven for forty minutes, shucked at the table, and buttered and salted, nothing else, it is ambrosia. No chef's ingenuity and imagination have ever created a finer dish. Those who do so should themselves be boiled in water. Ideally the corn - "

"I beg your pardon Mister Holmes, but can we get back to Doctor Watson?"

"You can forget about Doctor Watson," Mycroft waved a flipperlike hand in dismissal. "Ideally the corn should go straight from the stalk to the oven, but of course that's impractical for city dwellers. If it's picked at the right stage of development it is still a treat for the palate after twenty-four hours, or even forty-eight; I have tried it. But look at this." Mycroft pointed to the assorted piles. "This is preposterous. Mr. McLeod knows better. The first year I had him send two dozen ears, and I returned those that were not acceptable. He knows what I require, and he knows how to choose it without opening the husk. He is supposed to be equally meticulous with the supply for the restaurant, but I doubt if he is; they take fifteen to twenty dozen. Are they serving what they got today?"

"Yes," the inspector nodded. "They've admitted that they took it from the wagon even before they reported the body. If it's all right can we get back to the murder please?"

I expected Sherlock Holmes to join in the conversation, but he had become a silent observer. He was frowning rather curiously at his brother when she should have been frowning at Lestrade.

"Now then, Doctor Watson, let's get back to your relationship with Susan McLeod," Inspector Lestrade said in a predatory tone.

"What relationship?" I shrugged helplessly. "We saw each other, usually with a chaperone, but it didn't get anywhere. I admit that she's the most attractive model that Carl Heydt has working for him, and that she is the kindest and most pleasant person you could hope to meet, but she's as scatterbrained as any hatter in Bedlam. The one time I kissed her, she actually said 'I saw a horse kiss a cow once.' You never know what that girl is going to say because she doesn't know herself. Top it off despite her shapely ankles, she dances like a horse with a hobbled leg. Fortunately any 'relationship' we might have had was easy to break off because she never acknowledged that we started one in the first place."

"Egad," Sherlock Holmes murmured. "You dodged the bullet that time old boy. If you weren't careful she could have become Missus John Watson!"

"Anything else?" I asked the inspector.

"Plenty," Lestrade sneered at me. "When and how did you find out that Kenneth Faber had shoved you aside and taken Miss McLeod over?"

"What?" I gasped. "I wasn't shoved aside! I wasn't even in line!"

"Objection!" Holmes cried as he rose and melodramatically turned to Mycroft. "M'lord, I object to the question on the ground that it is insulting, impertinent, and disgusticulous! It assumes not only that my colleague Doctor Watson is shovable but also that he can be shoved out of a place he has never been!"

"Objection sustained." A corner of Mycroft's mouth was up a little as he thumped his desk. "You will rephrase the question, Mr. Lestrade."

"Like blazes I will." Lestrade's eyes kept at me. "You might as well open up, Doctor. We have a signed statement from her. What passed between you and Faber when he was in town last week?"

"Nothing," I shook my head helplessly. "I didn't know him! You're off your chum! Honestly, I never met the man!"

"You have a minute to get your hat, Doctor," he ordered. "We need to go down to the yard."

"Now listen." I turned a palm up in a halting gesture. "I told you where I was and have Holmes' word to back it! What did that woman say about me that has you so riled up against me?"

"The minute's up. Come on."

It was then that Holmes spoke up. Surprisingly it was not Sherlock who intervened but Mycroft. "Inspector Lestrade, I must confess that I am dumfounded by your fatuity. You have my brother's statement and can get that of his landlady and yet you insist on taking a guest from my house after the most cursory of investigations. You were so bent on baiting Doctor Watson that you completely ignored the point I was at pains to make." He pointed at the piles on his desk. "Who picked that corn?"

"That's your point Mister Holmes," Lestrade rasped. "Mine is who killed Kenneth Faber. Move, Doctor."

_Next: Susan McLeod_


	3. Susan McLeod

**Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Dead Deliveryman**

_By Galaxy1001D_

_Based off the story 'Murder is Corny' by Rex Stout_

_Additional material by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Rex Stout_

_Chapter Three: Susan McLeod_

It wasn't until twenty minutes past eleven the next day that our solicitor, the solid and dependable Bob Downy, secured my freedom, but on the cab ride home he hinted that my liberty might only be temporary.

"They actually think you may have killed that man," he said. "This is serious, Watson. I told the judge that bail in the amount that was asked would be justified only if they had enough evidence to charge you with murder, in which case you wouldn't be bailable, and he agreed. As your counsel, I must advise you to be prepared for such a charge at any moment. Would you believe that the bail we finally agreed on was a thousand pounds?"

"A thousand pounds!" I sputtered. "I don't have a thousand pounds! Holmes doesn't have a thousand pounds! They must really have something on me!"

When I returned home the place was empty. Or so I thought.

"Ah the prodigal son returns," Holmes murmured. I turned on my heel and there he was. Was he there the whole time or had he followed me up the stairs? "Dear me, look what the cat dragged in. I'll ask Mrs. Hudson to put some food in you. A fitting revenge I think. Every time _I_ come in late you try to put some food in _me_. Cigarette?"

I collapsed in a chair and lit up gratefully. "If you could see the bacon and eggs they had brought in for me and I paid two half-crowns for, let alone taste it, you'd never be the same. You'd be so afraid you might be hauled in as a material witness I dare say you would lose your nerve. They think maybe I killed Faber. For your information, I didn't."

"I know, old boy, I was with you at the time of the murder," Holmes smiled.

"Yes, that's right," I nodded weakly. "I've been answering so many questions I forgot." Holmes sat opposite me and tried to hide the concern in his eyes as I smoked. Finally I broke the silence. "Where did you get the money? We haven't got a thousand pounds."

"Ah it seems that my brother is a bit of skinflint," Holmes explained. "He's quite well off actually. It was easy to convince him to let us borrow the money. He knows you didn't do it. To him the money is as safe as if it were in a bank."

"I owe him an apology," I sighed. "The way he was going on about his corn and ignoring my plight certainly seemed cold blooded. I suppose I should thank him."

"Nonsense," my friend snorted. "His ego won't allow for anything or anyone to be seized from his sacred abode merely at Scotland Yard's whim. This is just his way of protesting."

"Money talks eh?"

"It certainly does where justice is concerned."

"Quite, now what do we do about-" A knock at the door interrupted me. "Come in."

In came our august landlady Mrs. Hudson. "Begging your pardon, Doctor Watson, you have a lady friend who wants to see you, a Miss Susan McLeod," she said as she gave me her card. "Will you be wanting lunch today, Doctor?"

"Yes, but not until after she's gone," I replied. "I would be shocked if she stayed to dine with us."

"I better make myself scarce," Holmes said as he went to his room. "Don't let her know I'm here, Mrs. Hudson. She's much more likely to be more forthcoming with just you in the room old man."

I nodded and sat in my chair as Holmes and our landlady disappeared through opposite doors. When she entered young Susan McLeod threw herself into my arms and kissed me. I admit I was surprised, but only because I hadn't gotten much sleep last night. Miss McLeod has been known to make grand, melodramatic gestures. Some say it's one of her charms.

She let go, backed up a step, and said, "You haven't shaved."

"I spent the night as a guest as of Metropolitan Police Service and I just got home," I explained. "You look like you could do with a bit of rest yourself."

"I certainly could," she admitted as she collapsed into a chair. "They kept me until after midnight asking questions and one of them took me home. Oh yes, I went to bed, but I didn't sleep, but I must have, because I woke up. John, I don't know what you're going to do to me."

"What makes you say that?" I crushed out my cigarette in an ashtray that Holmes had been using as a paperweight. "Why, have you done something to me?"

"I didn't mean to."

"No-no, of course not."

"It came out. You remember you explained it for me one night."

I nodded. "I said you have a bypass on your rail line. With ordinary people like me, when words start on their way out they have to go through a checking station for an okay, except when we're too impassioned to think straight. You may have a perfectly good checking station, but for some reason it often gets bypassed."

She was frowning. "But the trouble is, if I haven't got a checking station I'm just plain silly. If I do have one, it certainly got bypassed when the words came out about my going to meet you there yesterday."

"Meet me where?"

"At the Royale. There at the entrance to the alley where I used to turn in to deliver the corn to the restaurant. I said I was to meet you there at five o'clock and we were going to wait there until Ken came because we wanted to have a talk with him. But I was late, I didn't get there until a quarter past five, and you weren't there, so I left."

I remained calm. "You said that to whom?"

"To several people. I said it to a man who came to the flat, and at the Yard, and then to two more, and it was in a statement they had me sign."

"When did we make the date to meet there? Of course they asked that."

"They asked everything, John. I said we had met yesterday morning and we made it then."

"It's just possible that you _are_ silly, my dear. Didn't you realize they would come to me?"

"Why, of course. And you would deny it. But I thought they would think you just didn't want to be involved, and I said you weren't there, and you could probably prove you were somewhere else, so that wouldn't matter, and I had to give them some reason why I went there and then came away without even going in the restaurant to ask if Ken had been there." She leaned forward. "Don't you see, John? I couldn't say I had gone there to see Ken, could I?"

"No. Very well, you're not silly." I put my hand on my chin and pondered her words. "You had gone there to see Faber?"

"Yes. There was something - about something."

"You got there at a quarter past five?"

"Yes."

"And came away without even going in the restaurant to ask if Faber had been there?"

"I didn't - Yes, I came away."

I shook my head. "I'm sorry, my dear. Maybe you didn't want to get me involved, but you have, and I want to know. If you went there to see Mister Faber and got there at a quarter past five, you did see him. Didn't you?"

"I didn't see him alive." Her gloved hands on her lap, very nice hands, were curled into fists. "I saw him dead. I went up the alley and he was there on the ground. I thought he was dead, but, if he wasn't, someone would soon come out and find him, and I was frightened. I was frightened because I had told him just two days ago that I would like to kill him. I didn't think it out, I didn't stop to think, I was just scared stiff. I didn't realize until I was several blocks away how silly that was."

"Why was it silly?"

"Because the _maitre d'_ and the doorman had seen me. When I came I passed the front of the restaurant, and they were there on the sidewalk, and we spoke. So I couldn't say I hadn't been there and it was foolish to go away, but I was scared. When I got to my flat I thought it over and decided what to say, about going there to meet you, and when a man came and started asking questions I told him about it before he asked." She opened a fist to gesture. "I did think about it, John. I did think it couldn't matter to you, not much. The police trust you. I mean, you live with that detective fellow. The two of you solve involve yourself in this kind of business all the time, don't you?"

That cast serious doubt on the bypassing-the-checking-station theory, but there was no point in making an issue of it. "You thought wrong my dear," I said, not complaining, just stating a fact. "Of course they asked you why we were going to meet there to have a talk with Mister Faber, they asked what we wanted to talk with him about. Had you thought about that?"

"Oh, I didn't have to. About what he had told you, that I thought I was pregnant and he was responsible."

That was a little too much. I goggled at her, and my eyes were in no shape for goggling. "He had told me that?" I demanded. "When?"

"You know when. Last week. Last Tuesday when he brought the corn into town. He told me about it Saturday - no, Sunday. At the farm."

I winced in pain as my head rebelled at this new revelation. "I'm sorry my dear, I don't think I heard you correctly. Kenneth Faber told you on Sunday that he had told me on Tuesday that you thought you were pregnant and that he was responsible? Was that it?"

"Yes. He told Carl too - you know, Carl Heydt. He didn't tell me he had told Carl, but Carl did. I think he told two other men too - Peter Jay and Max Maslow. I don't think you know them. That was when I told him I would like to kill him, when he told me he had told you."

"And that's what you told the police we wanted to talk with him about?"

"Yes. I don't see why you say I thought wrong, thinking it wouldn't matter much to you, because you weren't there. Can't you prove you were somewhere else?"

I shut my eyes to look it over. The more I sorted it out, the messier it got. I opened my itching eyes and had to blink to get her in focus. "By Jove," I laughed bitterly, "it's close to perfect my dear. Honestly, I'm wracking my brains to figure out what I did you offend you so that you would punish me like this! Excuse me my dear, but why have you even come? You've placed my neck into the noose. Why bother to come here and tell me about it?"

"Because ... I thought ... don't you understand, John?"

"No," I shook my head helplessly. "I don't understand at all!"

"But don't you see, it's my word against yours. They told me last night that you denied that we had arranged to meet there. I wanted to ask you ... I thought you might change that, you might tell them that you denied it just because you didn't want to be involved, that you had agreed to meet me there but you decided not to go, and they'll have to believe you because of course you were somewhere else. Then they won't have any reason not to believe me." She put out a hand. "John ... will you? Then it will be all right."

"Mother of God! You really think so?"

"Of course it will. The way it is now, they think either I'm lying or you're lying, but if you tell them - "

"Shut your head, Susan! You aren't just being silly! You're being loony!"

She gawked at me, and I can't say I blame her. I can't recall a time I spoke so rudely to a member of the fair sex than that moment.

"Now listen," I ordered as I wagged a commanding finger. "Whether you meant it or not, I am out on an extremely rickety limb. Mister Faber did not tell me last Tuesday that you thought you were pregnant and that he was responsible. He told me nothing whatever, because I have never met the man. It makes no difference whether he lied to you or you're lying to the police and me, they think he did. They also think or suspect that you and I have been intimate. They also expect you to say under oath that I agreed to meet you at the entrance of that alley yesterday at five o'clock, and I can't prove I wasn't there. There's a man who will say he was with me somewhere else, but he's my best friend, and they don't have to believe him at the Yard and neither do they at the assizes. I don't know what else they have or haven't got, but any time now - "

"I didn't lie to you, John," she insisted. "Everything I told - "

"It doesn't matter," I shook my head. "Any time now, any minute, I may be hauled in on a charge of murder!"

_Next: Susan's Story_


	4. Susan's Story

**Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Dead Deliveryman**

_By Galaxy1001D_

_Based off the story 'Murder is Corny' by Rex Stout_

_Additional material by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Rex Stout_

_Chapter Four: Susan's Story_

I paced our sitting room at Baker Street, trying to make her understand. "They're going to take me away you silly girl, and then where will I be? Or suppose I somehow managed to convince them that I did not agree to meet you there, that you're lying to them, and I wasn't there. Then what happens to you? The way it stands, the way you've staged it, today or tomorrow either you or I will be put in the clink with no way out. So either I - "

"But John, you - "

"Don't interrupt Susan," I warned her. "Either I wriggle away by setting the dogs on you – Wait a tick, I haven't asked you." I stopped pacing and went to her. "Look me in the eye Susan. Did you kill Kenneth Faber?"

"No."

"Again. Did you kill him?"

"No, John!"

I turned and went back to my chair. She came a step forward, backed up, and sat. "Dash it all," I groaned. "Either I wriggle off the hook by setting the dogs on you, and it would take some wriggling, or I - "

The door to my friend's room opened and there was Holmes, wearing my stethoscope as he entered. "I beg your pardon, Miss, I don't mean to intrude, but I couldn't help overhearing – "

I tapped my ear and pulled on my tie to let him know he was still wearing my stethoscope.

He snatched it off and cleared his throat awkwardly as he hid it in his jacket. "Ahem, as I was saying, I overheard your entire conversation and discovered the pickle you have my friend in. Whether by design or stupidity, you have brought our dear Watson to a desperate pass. Thanks to you, he is in grave jeopardy. My friend Watson is far too chivalrous to question you properly but rest assured my dear, I am not." He turned to me. "Watson old boy, are you sure she didn't kill him?"

"What do you think?" I asked in exasperation. "You're the world's first and only consulting detective! Do _you_ think she killed him?"

"At this point, I cannot say for certain," he mused, "although in my opinion when a man puts a woman in a family way her normal procedure is to incarcerate him in the chains of wedlock, and quickly. What she wants most and has got to have is a father for the baby. A dead father just won't do, you know. She certainly isn't going to murder him unless - "

"Don't be daft, Mister Holmes," Susan blurted out, "I'm not pregnant."

I stared. "You said Ken told you he told me ..."

She nodded. "Ken would tell anybody anything."

"But you thought you were?"

"Of course not. How could I? There's only one way a girl can get pregnant, and it couldn't have been that with me because it's never happened."

"Interesting," Holmes rubbed his hands, and his eyes glistened. He sat himself on a divan with an expression of extraordinary concentration upon his clear-cut, hawk-like features. "Tell me all, Miss McLeod, unless of course you wish for poor Watson to hang for a crime he didn't commit, in which case we needn't trouble you. You will of course, forgive poor Watson for extricating himself by steadfastly relying on the truth instead of that tommyrot you propose he drivel."

"I don't care for your tone Mister Holmes," she sniffed.

"My apologies Miss McLeod," he drawled. "I'm always a bit brusque with those who incriminate an innocent man of a capital offense. It's a queer little quirk of mine."

"I didn't do it on purpose!" she protested.

"I'm sure you didn't, but like the beating Mister Faber received it's difficult to accept that it was an accident," he winked.

"Holmes, I'm sorry," I interrupted. "Kenneth Faber was beat to death?"

"Hm? Oh yes, his skull was smashed in. While you've been incarcerated I took the liberty in looking into this myself. I hope you don't mind old bean?"

"Not at all," I gave a sigh of relief. "Do go on old man."

"They found him on the receiving platform in the alley at the rear of the Royale," my friend continued. "They even found the murder weapon, a piece of two-inch lead pipe sixteen and five-eighths inches long, threaded male at one end and female at the other, old and battered. Easy to hide under a coat. Where it came from might be discovered by one man in ten hours or by a thousand men in ten years. Now, Miss McLeod, kindly tell me about your relationship with the late Mister Faber. How did you meet?"

"We met eight months ago at a party at Peter Jay's flat," she replied. "Poor Ken was very ardent in his wooing and four months later, in May, I told him she _would_ marry him some day - say in two or three years, when I was ready to give up modeling – but only if he had shown that he could support a family. You must understand Mister Holmes, I was making good money as a model, ten times as much as he was, and of course if I got married I couldn't expect to keep that up. I don't think a married woman should model anyway because if you're married you ought to have babies, and there's no telling what that will do to you, and who looks after the babies?"

"You met at a party," Holmes repeated, "and not at your father's farm."

"Oh no, I got him that job last June, at his request, but I had soon regretted it," she told us. "Of course he knew I went to the farm weekends in the summer, and the very first weekend it was easy to see what his idea was. He thought it would be different on the farm than in town, it would be easy to get me to do what he wanted, as easy as falling off a log. The second week it was worse, and the third week it was still worse, and I was seeing what he was really like and I wished I hadn't said I would marry him. He accused me of letting other men do what I wouldn't let him do, and he tried to make me promise I wouldn't date any other man, even for dinner or a show. Then the last week in July he seemed to get some sense, and I thought maybe he had just gone through one of those chapters in a man's life or something, but last week, Friday evening, he was worse than ever all of a sudden, and Sunday he told me he had told John Watson that I thought I was pregnant and he was responsible, and of course John would pass it on, and if I denied it no one would believe me, and the only thing to do was to get married right away. That was when I told him I'd like to kill him. Then the next day, Monday, Carl - Carl Heydt - told me that Ken had told him the same thing, and I suspected he had told two other men, on account of things they had said, and I decided to go there Tuesday and see him. I was going to tell him he had to tell John and Carl it was a lie, and anybody else he had told, and if I had to I'd get a solicitor."

"Do you know why Mister Faber chose those particular men to spread such slander against you?" my friend asked.

"Oh yes, Mister Holmes," she smiled bashfully. "It's because of all the men who asked me to marry them; they were the only ones I'm actually considering saying 'yes' to."

"Watson!" Holmes made a big show of surprise. "You asked Miss McLeod for her hand?"

"Not that I can recall," I replied hesitantly.

"I know," teased Susan McLeod, "because you never asked me! But I distinctly remember saying that I'd marry you if you ever asked."

"Eh, yes," I blushed. "Quite."

"Nothing like a woman scorned, eh Watson?" Holmes teased. "By the by, old fellow, how did you two meet?"

"John rescued me from a pair of ruffians!" our guest ejaculated. "You should have seen him Mister Holmes! As cool as a customer as I've ever seen. The workmanlike way he used his stick on those two hooligans was breathtaking! I was scared stiff of him myself until I saw the look of concern in his eyes as he extended his hand to me and said 'Are you all right Miss?' It was then my heart just melted! He found me a flat, and got me my job with Carl, and the rest is history!"

"Ah, which leads you to our door," Holmes nodded. "It all becomes clear now. The reason you implicated Watson is because he's the hero sort. Your knight errant as it were. I fancy that all the men you met in town so far have had to go far to measure up our ex-soldier. So much for Watson. Let us turn our attention to the other men on the list. You know those men quite well. You know their temperaments and bents. If one of them, enraged beyond endurance by Mr. Faber's conduct, went there and killed him, which one? Remembering it was not a sudden fit of passion, it was premeditated, planned. From your knowledge of them, theoretically, which one?"

She was staring. "They didn't."

"Really? Not one?" he asked in a condescending tone. "Well, I must concede that your refusal to think ill of a friend is commendable. It's possible that Mr. Faber may have been killed by someone you have never heard of with a motive you can't even conjecture - and by the way, I haven't asked you: do you know of anyone who might have had a ponderable reason for killing him?"

"No."

"But it's possible that Mr. Heydt does, or Mr. Jay or Mr. Maslow. Even accepting your conclusion that none of them killed him, I must see them. I must also see your father, but separately - I'll attend to that. My only possible path to the murderer is the motive, and one or more of those four men who knew Mr. Faber may start me on it." He eyed her and smiled coldly. "You seem so confident that none of those men killed him. Is that because you know for certain they did not? Could it be that you yourself are the culprit?"

"I didn't kill him!" she protested.

"Yes, I understand, but you must look at it from an outsider's view Miss McLeod," my friend apologized. "So far, out of all the suspects only one has been sighted in the vicinity and incriminated an innocent man. You can see why suspicion might fall your way, don't you?"

She rose shakily to her feet, her face bloodless. "John, I think I shall be going now."

"Yes, I think that would be best my dear," I muttered as I led her to the door. "Careful down the steps."

"Be seeing you," she murmured as she descended gingerly down the stairs and let herself out the front door.

After I saw her out I returned to my chair. "I can't believe she would place me in this position," I moaned. "You wouldn't think it to look at her. She's such an innocent looking little thing!"

Holmes had lit his pipe and was leaning back with drooping eyelids. "Is she?" he said languidly; "I did not observe."

"You really are an automaton–a calculating machine," I sighed. "There is something positively inhuman in you at times."

He smiled gently.

"It is of the first importance not to allow your judgment to be biased by personal qualities," he warned me. "The emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning. I assure you that the most winning woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three little children for their insurance-money, and the most repellent man of my acquaintance is a philanthropist who has spent nearly a quarter of a million upon the London poor."

"Yes, but Susan McLeod," I shook my head. "She's only been in town a year. She seems as innocent as the day is long."

"Indeed, but when a girl lands a lucrative job as a model and attracts five suitors in less than a year the day seems to shorten somewhat."

"Do you think she did it then?"

"Ah, although the threads we have gathered would seem to indicate that little Miss McLeod is our killer, one knot has come to snarl them."

"And what is that?"

"I doubt a young lady would walk about town carrying a sixteen and five-eighths inch long lead pipe," he shrugged. "Try as I might, I just can't see it. Not even under her coat. Can you, Watson?"

"No," I sighed. "I can't either. Although he certainly gave her reason enough, didn't he?"

"One would think she would have killed him last Sunday in a moment of passion or would have enlisted some gallant protector to defend her reputation," Holmes admitted. "You make an excellent candidate Watson, but she obviously didn't ask you. So who?"

"Can't you tell if she was lying?"

"Oh my dear boy I know she was lying," Holmes shrugged. "The question is, by how much? Who is she protecting? And what tipped Mycroft off as to who did it?"

"I beg your pardon?" I sat up and leaned forward. "Did you just say your brother Mycroft knows who did it?"

"Of course old man, why else would he front the thousand pounds?" he shrugged. "Aside of what I've told him about you and a few chance encounters he doesn't know you from Adam. Why would he bail you out unless he knows you're innocent?"

"Then why didn't he say anything?"

"Ah, that _is_ the question isn't it?" Holmes nodded. "For what purpose could Brother Mycroft be shielding our killer? He isn't the sort of person to be impressed by the murderer's chivalry if it's not Miss McLeod, and if it was she my brother wouldn't be swayed by her charms any more than I would. So why didn't he say anything?"

"You told me that you often have taken a problem to him, and have received an explanation which has afterwards proved to be the correct one," I pointed out. "So why isn't he helping us now?"

"Ah well you see that's a sensitive subject," my shamefaced friend admitted. "Once while I was visiting he presented me with the solution to an enigma without my asking. I didn't say anything at the time but I'm afraid I took it rather hard and let sibling rivalry get the better of me. As a matter of fact, before we visited him at the Diogenes Club last June I had not spoken to him for over six years."

"Holmes!" I ejaculated. "Don't you think you should ask him _now_?"

"It's quite unnecessary my dear fellow, I can figure this out on my own," he insisted. "I warned you that the emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning. If not for the personal distractions of you and my brother I might have observed what he did and have solved it by now."

"Holmes! You have got to be the most! Oh!" I seethed as I rose to my feet to escape him. "I'm going to my room. Let me know when Mrs. Hudson has lunch on! I'm afraid if I wait in here I'm liable to murder _you_ before then!"

"Eliminate that one witness that clears you?" my friend asked dryly. "You just aren't thinking things through old fellow."

* * *

_Next: Duncan McLeod of the Clan McLeod_


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